the worktop – a bloodied severed ear had come to rest six inches from his face.
It was this ear that regularly plagued his nights. In his dreams the ear grew legs, sprouted pert breasts and danced for him; in a baffling display of physiology, it mouthed words at him, although he could never hear anything it said; it increased in size, inflating until it threatened to smother him. This was usually when Romney woke sweating and panting, gasping for air, like a drowning man, and possibly shouting.
After two weeks of the oft-recurring nightmare, DI Romney went in search of answers and help the only place he thought he could do so in the strictest of professional confidences. Friday afternoons had been determined for the sessions because Doctor Puchta’s secretary knocked off for the weekend Friday lunchtime. Romney would not even risk being identified as a regular visitor.
The recurrence of the ear in disturbing dreams was, Doctor Puchta assured him, a common symbol of some deep-rooted listening-associated anxiety. In dream culture, the ear was long recognised as indicating issues of the dreamer to do with responsiveness and receptiveness. Often, it carried negative associations. It suggested an over-reliance of the individual in question on their own judgment and intuition and their acknowledgement of their insecurity for it. The talking ear that cannot be heard implies a deep subconscious need on the part of the sufferer for guidance and instruction, she had told him. She could offer no interpretation for the ear that grew legs and breasts and danced for his amusement.
Something long and deeply buried in his subconscious, she had theorised. Something that must be chiselled away at and exposed if Romney were to have a chance of understanding and then successfully putting the whole business behind him and moving on. She said that rarely were such emotionally-disturbing issues simply revealed and dealt with. If he wanted her help, he would have to sign up for a six-session programme and after that they would consult as to whether there was the need for more.
From understanding comes enlightenment and ultimately peace, she had said. And he had believed her, such was his desperation for answers. A month on and he was beginning to have his doubts that there was anything to be found. He was feeling better about it all and he felt that this had more to do with the passage of time than anything he’d learned about himself in her consulting room.
She had tried to regress him, failed to hypnotise him and been unable to unearth any dark boyhood secrets or perverted fantasies. For Romney, it had not all been comfortable participation, but it had at times been cathartic to just talk to someone – something he realised he rarely had the opportunity to do. An enema for his mind. Other than that, he was beginning to think that the whole exercise was a waste of time and money, despite the good Doctor insisting that they must persevere at least for the initial six-week consultation programme she had devised for him. But she would say that at the prices she was charging. Maybe she was saving for a pool.
‘How are you feeling this week, Tom?’
‘Fine. Really.’ And then he couldn’t help himself: ‘Or I was until this morning.’
‘Why? What happened this morning?’
*
‘Why does this always have to happen on Friday afternoons?’ said Grimes. ‘I told the kids we’d go bowling tonight in Ashford, Pizza Hut and then Cineworld.’ He shook his head, tutted and waited with the phone to his ear. ‘You can come along if you like, Sarge. The kids actually liked you.’
‘Thanks. I liked them too, but I’ve got something on tonight.’ A fresh ripple of dismay washed through Marsh at the thought of her evening. ‘No luck?’
‘His phone’s off. Where does he go, do you think?’ Grimes looked unusually agitated.
‘I’ve no idea.’ Marsh suspected that Romney had a regular Friday afternoon assignation with a
It was this ear that regularly plagued his nights. In his dreams the ear grew legs, sprouted pert breasts and danced for him; in a baffling display of physiology, it mouthed words at him, although he could never hear anything it said; it increased in size, inflating until it threatened to smother him. This was usually when Romney woke sweating and panting, gasping for air, like a drowning man, and possibly shouting.
After two weeks of the oft-recurring nightmare, DI Romney went in search of answers and help the only place he thought he could do so in the strictest of professional confidences. Friday afternoons had been determined for the sessions because Doctor Puchta’s secretary knocked off for the weekend Friday lunchtime. Romney would not even risk being identified as a regular visitor.
The recurrence of the ear in disturbing dreams was, Doctor Puchta assured him, a common symbol of some deep-rooted listening-associated anxiety. In dream culture, the ear was long recognised as indicating issues of the dreamer to do with responsiveness and receptiveness. Often, it carried negative associations. It suggested an over-reliance of the individual in question on their own judgment and intuition and their acknowledgement of their insecurity for it. The talking ear that cannot be heard implies a deep subconscious need on the part of the sufferer for guidance and instruction, she had told him. She could offer no interpretation for the ear that grew legs and breasts and danced for his amusement.
Something long and deeply buried in his subconscious, she had theorised. Something that must be chiselled away at and exposed if Romney were to have a chance of understanding and then successfully putting the whole business behind him and moving on. She said that rarely were such emotionally-disturbing issues simply revealed and dealt with. If he wanted her help, he would have to sign up for a six-session programme and after that they would consult as to whether there was the need for more.
From understanding comes enlightenment and ultimately peace, she had said. And he had believed her, such was his desperation for answers. A month on and he was beginning to have his doubts that there was anything to be found. He was feeling better about it all and he felt that this had more to do with the passage of time than anything he’d learned about himself in her consulting room.
She had tried to regress him, failed to hypnotise him and been unable to unearth any dark boyhood secrets or perverted fantasies. For Romney, it had not all been comfortable participation, but it had at times been cathartic to just talk to someone – something he realised he rarely had the opportunity to do. An enema for his mind. Other than that, he was beginning to think that the whole exercise was a waste of time and money, despite the good Doctor insisting that they must persevere at least for the initial six-week consultation programme she had devised for him. But she would say that at the prices she was charging. Maybe she was saving for a pool.
‘How are you feeling this week, Tom?’
‘Fine. Really.’ And then he couldn’t help himself: ‘Or I was until this morning.’
‘Why? What happened this morning?’
*
‘Why does this always have to happen on Friday afternoons?’ said Grimes. ‘I told the kids we’d go bowling tonight in Ashford, Pizza Hut and then Cineworld.’ He shook his head, tutted and waited with the phone to his ear. ‘You can come along if you like, Sarge. The kids actually liked you.’
‘Thanks. I liked them too, but I’ve got something on tonight.’ A fresh ripple of dismay washed through Marsh at the thought of her evening. ‘No luck?’
‘His phone’s off. Where does he go, do you think?’ Grimes looked unusually agitated.
‘I’ve no idea.’ Marsh suspected that Romney had a regular Friday afternoon assignation with a
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